choke
by a pretty little liar
Summary: Because when she thinks of Alaric Saltzman, she thinks of vervain ropes and number two pencils. When she thinks of Alaric Saltzman, she thinks of dark, pitiless eyes and a seriously ferocious smirk. - Or - The one where Miss Mystic Falls realizes that monsters are real. / Gonna have to go way back for this one. Caroline-centric but heavy on the Klaroline.


**CHOKE**

...

Her shot of bourbon _looks _like vervain, but it has a completely different kind of burn.

They're at the Grill: herself, Elena, Stefan, Matt, and even Bonnie and Damon, too, in a small party room in the back corner with a celebratory bottle of bourbon going around between them. She set it up herself — a party to celebrate the lives of those they lost, Alaric's name a ghostly whisper on tips of their tongues.

They have piles of food lined along the wall and a couple apples skewered with pencils for Alaric, but it's all a lot more painful than she thought it'd be. They're supposed to be celebrating his life, but she finds it difficult to dig up any happy memory of Alaric Saltzman. It makes her feel horrible and she has that totally gross taste of bile in the back of her throat, because she sort of just wants to celebrate his _death_. But it doesn't make her a bad person — just hear her out. He wasn't _him_, right? Like, he changed, and he'd never be _him _again, so really, she shouldn't feel bad that he died, doesn't _have _to feel bad that he's no longer around to hurt her.

He wronged _her _and she'd never been anything but nice to him. Had even forgiven him for his role in her father's death. _Tried to see the good in him_. And he'd taken her kindness and welded it as a weapon.

And he wasn't going to stop until she—they— were all dead.

Him or them, you know?

But she _does _feel bad. Even after all of that, she's still sorry. She's sorry that he changed, and she's sorry that his potential was spent by forces he couldn't control (because life sucks, she's realized, and sometimes you just have accept that).

"Hey." Elena visualizes in front of her, pulling her from the murk her thoughts have left her in.

"Hey." She smiles stiffly when Elena holds up a shot glass, amber liquid brimming at the rim, but accepts it none the less.

"Bourbon," Elena breathes through her teeth, shoulders slumped forward as she fills her own shot glass to the brim and nods towards the picture of Alaric propped up in the middle of the table. "He'd want this," she says, fields a glance over her shoulder at Jeremy, and Caroline wonders if he can see Alaric Saltzman right there in the room with them. "He'd want us to celebrate his life."

Caroline tosses back her shot without giving it another thought, because the thought that Mr. Saltzman could potentially be sitting right next to her prickles her skin, and an icy hand of complete and utter fear clenches her stomach. It makes her heart pound painfully against her ribcage, and the sound reverberates in her mind, pinging and ponging back and forth like a plastic birdie between rackets.

She wonders if anyone else can hear it, with all the general subhuman sensory in the room.

She wonders if anyone even cares.

They've been through this one too many times already. From Alaric to Caroline's own father, to both sets of Elena's parents, and even to a mother who maybe wasn't technically dead but had never been the kind of material that ended up on a Hallmark card. And to themselves. Tyler, herself, even Damon and Stefan, and finally Elena. Sentenced to Eternal Damnation through no fault of their own. Maybe, she thinks, they ended up with the shorter straw. No pearly gates high up above, no heralding angels in the eternal paradise. And they'd definitely been shafted an eternal rest in peace.

Yeah, she decides, they'd all ended up with the short stick. It's actually pretty amazing that any of them can even still function right now.

So she takes another shot, and then another and another until she's practically numb, because maybe she _wants _to feel numb, just for a little bit.

The back of her tongue tingles and her throat burns as it passes, igniting a fire that spurts down to the tips of her toes, but the bourbon goes down surprisingly easily.

...

"Maybe we should each talk about a memory or something," Jeremy suggests with a shrug. "I mean, isn't that how this thing works?"

It's perfectly logical, Caroline thinks, because isn't that part of the death dance? Sharing memories, forever stagnant and lasting in time. The good things, memories that provide a thread of remembrance to hold on to, to carry throughout the rest of your tomorrows?

So the suggestion isn't ridiculous by any means, but it still causes Caroline to choke.

Because when she thinks of Alaric Saltzman, she thinks of vervain ropes and number two pencils. When she thinks of Alaric Saltzman, she thinks of dark, pitiless eyes and a seriously ferocious smirk.

Evil incarnated, and that's not even an exaggeration.

It should be easy.

"_I remember the time_," is the common start. She's heard it before, hell, she's _said _it before. But when she searches her brain for something to say, racks it even, she comes up blank. There's plenty of things she _wants _to say, but nothing that she _can _say.

So instead, she clears her throat and excuses herself because she can feel the emotion climbing up, crowding for space, and her eyes begin to burn with tears that have been building and building for three full days.

She was _tortured _by this man, her father was _killed _by this man, her mother lost her job because of this man and _that's_ all that she can think about. He stuck pencils in her hands like nails and used her as bait, turned her and her friends out just for the sake of doing it. Just because he _could_. Those are the only memories that come to mind when she thinks about Alaric Saltzman.

But she's not going to ruin it for those who loved him, for those who can still see past his wrongs. She's not going to rain on their parade and sour their memories.

Miss Mystic Falls has more tact than that.

...

She slips from the room nearly unnoticed.

Her back is to them when she hears Bonnie call her name, and swallows thickly against a lump of emotion that's pushing at her tongue, ready to spew things that she probably shouldn't say.

_Save face, save face, save face_.

She plasters on a smile and turns to face her friends, wringing her hands uncomfortably. "Care, are... are you okay?" Bonnie questions softly, tentatively, and she's suddenly standing right in front of Caroline, her face set into a sympathetic frown and her hands on Caroline's.

"Yeah, Bon, I'm totally fine!" Caroline promises with a false sense of gaiety. Bonnie is a great listener, her best friend, and she usually has no problem confiding in her. But this time, it's different. This really isn't something she needs to be bothered with; at least not when Bonnie's own feelings towards vampires are so heavily skewed.

So, instead, she nods towards the door just to their left and lowers her voice. "I just... I need some air."

Bonnie nods, makes towards the door before Caroline realizes her intentions. "By myself," she says softly, squeezing Bonnie's shoulder reassuringly. "I'll be fine... I _am _fine. Just... Give me a minute."

She catches Elena's eye from over Bonnie's shoulder, and shakes her head when Elena starts to stand.

"I'll be right back, don't even worry about me," she tells Bonnie before slipping away, not a moment to spare before the tears well over and run steadily down her cheeks.

...

Her mascara is probably smeared and her nose is running, so instead of compelling herself a drink of hard liquor and hanging out in the main part of the Grill until she calms down enough to join the memorial festivities, she slips out the back door of the party room and settles down on the sidewalk, folding her legs beneath herself.

The air is still sort of cool; it's early spring, but there's a surprising chill that feels like ice and pins when she inhales, and she convinces herself that the icy-cool sting in her nostrils is all in the air. It's just easier that way.

If oblivion is bliss, she welcomes it.

But it's not that easy, not really, to wipe away the bad memories and favor the good. Maybe because she doesn't really _have _any good memories — not that they're all bad, not by a long shot. But she remembers Alaric Saltzman in a completely different way than any of her friends; he wasn't her guardian, her almost cousin-in-law, and he wasn't her drinking buddy. He wasn't even her teacher. He was just Alaric Saltzman: Friend By Default, and so her hurt is completely different than anyone else's.

And it's suffocating.

She can put up with a lot, _forgive _a lot, but this time the wounds, the hurt, it's all still too fresh.

It rips at her heart, stipples in her chest, and the acid in her stomach churns with a ferocity that's intent on ripping her apart. Just like the vervain, she thinks. Like Alaric Saltzman and Katherine before him, and Damon before her.

_Collateral damage_.

And it's not for the first time that the term is applicable to her.

She's not even sure how it keeps happening, because she's tried really, really hard to keep herself from being the wilting damsel in need of saving. She tries to keep her distance from those with venom in their teeth and helplessness in their veins, but at the end of the day, it doesn't really matter. This town, these... these _creatures_, she'll always be someone's collateral damage. She gets that now.

And that hurts almost more than the vervain.

And then she gets angry.

The hurt, the physical pain, it festers until it bursts and twists into a sharp anger, something red and fiery that clenches her soul. It fills her mind, washes through her neck and chest and pulses at her fingertips. It rushes with the strength of a raging river, busting down all of her carefully constructed dams, leaving a corroded, soppy mess in its wake. Fills every nook, every cranny, pounding at her resolve until all she wants to do is scream and rip and seethe. She sees red everywhere she looks, but palms to her eyes does little but play it all on a never ending loop.

She wonders if this is how a person goes crazy.

She clenches her hands into fists, but the ache doesn't ease until she has the green bench with peeling green paint in her hands and hears the nails ripping from their sockets like a loaded spring.

Her scream sounds something like a war cry, strangled and tormented even to her own ears. She pulls back, startled. It's unfamiliar; doesn't sound very much like her own voice, but then the bench is ripping from her grasp and hurtling across two lanes of empty street until it crashes onto the hood of a parked car. It crunches the metal so easily, like an ant beneath her shoe.

She hears the clicking of a heeled boot on the pavement and she doesn't even know what she's doing when she has this nameless, faceless person shoved up against the brick wall, her arm crushed to their throat and her heart pounding in her chest. It's all she hears: her blood surging through her body, her heart beating quickly, and a spastic kind of white noise in her ears.

A peculiar sort of excitement has her surging forward, adrenaline tingling through her veins.

Whoever she has pinned to the wall just sort of chuckles, saying nothing more, but gently pushes her back a step or two.

His touch is soft, delicate almost, but there's no hesitance in it. Short nails and an unprecedented strength behind his grip falters her for a moment. His skin is smooth and unmarred, not roughened from years of labor and use. _Supernatural, _she thinks. His fingers are long, lithe, and curl around her wrist with a soft possessiveness she's come to know too damn well.

She allows herself a moment—just one, a couple of seconds long enough to rest her forehead on his shoulder, eyes closed, swallowing thickly as her world begins to right, fading to a dull familiarity. She recognizes his scent, the way his hands are so familiar on hers (maybe even _too _familiar, because it's probably not, like, a _good _thing that they're at the point that she can recognize him just by touch, and dammit, why is he always touching her?).

They've done this dance a few times too many, she thinks.

But she's not scared. Not of him. Never really was. He could stick a stake in her heart or rip her arms clean out of their sockets, or kidnap and whisk her away to some secret island in the middle of nowhere before she could even scream, but she's still not scared. She figures her rap sheet is more impressive than most (and honestly, she's just out of damn's to give).

So she's not going to whimper.

She's not going to stutter or ask with a quiver if he's going to kill her, because some part of her just doesn't really care anymore... Except, really, who is she trying to fool? She does care. She cares a lot, actually. She hasn't really done anything substantial in life, and hello, her mother? There's no way she's leaving her alone here in this demented Hellmouth-wannabe of a town.

But more than that, she's not going to give _him _the satisfaction of seeing her tremble at his hand.

Nope. She's not going to choke.

Not today, not ever again.

So she tightens her grip on the lapels of his jacket and shoves her arm into his throat with a little more power. Adrenaline has her twitchy, but at least she's not seeing red anymore. Nope. Instead, a faint black film slips over her vision as her fangs threaten to expose themselves, pushing painfully at her gums. There's a pang in her chest, a tightness that she's never really felt before, and she suddenly can't draw in enough air to fill her lungs.

She hates this: feeling so vulnerable. So _human_.

There's a growl and chuckle, and she's not sure which one comes from her.

"Mm," he drawls lazily, humor lacing his tone, "such anger." He looks past her with a soft grin, clasping his hands behind his back. His eyes slide back to hers, but it's the tilt of his head, the playful sparkle in the blue of his eyes, the dimple at the corner of his mouth that deepens in bemusement that has her reeling back. The rage is there, just beneath the surface, boiling and bubbling and waiting until her resolve melts away to display itself. "Pure, unadulterated rage."

She gives him a firm shove before pushing herself away from, whirling on her heel and turning her back.

Doesn't stop him from getting the last word in, though (never does). "It's quite becoming, Caroline."

She scoffs, crossing her arms. "What do you want, Klaus? I'm not in the mood."

Klaus simply shrugs, walking around her in a slow circle, and she distinctly feels like a dying animal targeted by a keen-eyed vulture.

"Nothing from you," he says with a casual shrug, looking away to admire the scenery. The sun sets at a rapid pace, the sky painted a postcard worthy picture of rose-dusted clouds and glittering rays of sun-kissed gold and burnt orange. "I've come to collect my brother." He nods towards the entrance of the Grill, where a the cheer of rowdy bar patrons bounces in fading echoes.

She scoffs again, mostly just because she finds some delight in the way it irritates him. That's what he gets for finding her when she's going through a quarter life crisis. Like, there's hardly ever a good time to see him, but he has this irritating knack of being able to find her at the most inopportune moments, and really, it's starting to grate on her nerves.

But hey, bonus! — it does stop him in his tracks. He turns to face her, and the cruel lilt of a smile on his lips has her shoulders bracing in apprehension. You know how fiction is always saying stuff like, _'his eyes flashed'_ and you're like,_ yeah, okay _— well, his eyes _do_ flash, and it's just enough to fill her chest with dread.

She can't say she _wasn't_ expecting a witty retort, and he delivers just as she expected him to. "I assure you, love, you are of no concern to me at the moment."

Still, his declaration stings. She won't admit it though, and carefully schools her expression 'cause she's sure as hell not going to let him see her flinch. Refuses to think about the fact that she's apparently desperate enough for attention that the words of a certified psycho have the power of a sledgehammer to her heart. Seriously, that's fantastic. Because she's not messed up enough already.

"Ditto. "

He tilts his head again _that way, _and she hates him for it. Hates the carelessness he fakes at her statement, acting like he hasn't been the thorn in her side for months now.

"Actually, you've _never _been of any concern to me."

_Ooooh_. Shots fired!

It's mean, but she doesn't really care. She wants to be mean right now, because it makes her feel a little better. Besides, as far as she's concerned, he's pretty much asking for it (came in asking for it, complete with a waiting platter and place cards with all of their names scrawled in elegant, blood-spattered calligraphy).

He inhales sharply through his teeth, his hand crossing to rest over his heart. "Harsh, love." He shakes his head, but his tone is still amused. And she really, _really _just wants to punch him in his smug face.

She shrugs bitterly, quickening her pace. "I told you to leave me alone."

He catches up to her easily, as she knew he would, and somehow, despite his longer strides, falls into step with her. "You didn't," he points out, a smug grin titling the corners of his mouth. "You asked what it was that I wanted." He pauses a moment, contemplating, and adds, "—But semantics."

She scoffs, for real this time, because he's honestly just insufferable. "Really with the games?!"

His hands are in his pockets, and his red button down is too bright as it bleeds into her vision, giving her a headache (maybe she sees that same color red in her mind's eye, a memory that plays on loop and is somehow resistant to the delete button).

"Not a game, love, just making conversation."

She flips her hair over her shoulder, praying that the wind whips it into his face.

"Yeah, well, like I said: not in the mood."

She's going to her car to gather the remaining bags of food, but only because she sort of ended up there via autopilot; she's not going back to the Grill just yet—she's still not ready to face her friends and their questioning, sympathetic eyes. So she just keeps walking. Besides, what's the worst that could happen? The world's darkest most dangerous creature is walking beside her, a dimpled grin denting his cheeks and his malicious demeanor.

"Mm, not feeling very festive?"

They pass the main entrance to the Grill and she contemplates making a sarcastic quip about him forgetting his brother, but decides against it. She just doesn't have the energy for the racquetball game they play.

"My feelings are none of your business."

And when he doesn't say anything, she holds her breath. She's not exactly sure why — she doesn't expect him to turn on her or anything (honestly, she's pretty much come to the conclusion that she could literally stab him in the back and he'd turn around and find some way of blaming Damon instead).

He doesn't say anything, just sort of grins and holds a hand over his heart.

Good, she thinks. She hopes it hurt.

"So what are you running from today, Caroline?"

She bites her lip, then takes the jump. "_You. _But you don't seem to get the hint."

But he barely reacts, just as she expected him to (er, not to). She wonders how far she has to push him before she crosses line and he snaps the single thin string keeping his sanity together.

She wonders if there's even a line to cross.

(And maybe some part of her wants to cross it, because really, she's ready for a fight. Sort of aching for one, even. A jaw to crack, teeth to crush, anything to unclench the anger that curls her fingers into her palms, and ease the ache her nails leave in her skin).

Never one to be deterred by, well, _anything_, Klaus just stuffs his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels. He looks to her, grinning, and seriously, you have _no idea_ how much she wants to punch him in his stupid, smug, dimpled face. He nods towards the bar, brows raising suggestively, and waits for an answer.

Well, a lady doesn't keep men waiting, right? With a carefully measured eye roll, she sighs. "Oh my God, what?"

Klaus' breath swirls in the air, a foggy grayish white. "Why don't you join us for a drink, Caroline?" he suggests. "Get your mind off of the horrors produced by your history teacher." He stops then, and touches her arm tentatively. "Which, by the way, my condolences."

Caroline snorts. "Please. What part of _I'm running away from you _translates to _let's have a drink _in your mind?"

"Oh come on, Caroline!" Klaus insists, slipping his fingers around her arm. "Just one drink. It'll do you a world of good. Settle those nerves some."

Cocking an eyebrow, Caroline grins and pulls her arm free from his grasp. "Encouraging under age drinking?"

Klaus just shrugs, and sticks his hands back in his pockets. "So, how about it?"

Harder liquor sounds pretty freaking awesome right now, but the last thing she wants to do is alert anyone that she's having a drink with Satan himself. Glancing back at the party room, she sees the silhouettes of her friends, and tucks her lip under her teeth. "My friends—"

"—Can wait," Klaus supplies, ignoring the party room altogether.

No.

No way.

Nope, no siree.

No way in hell.

She's not going to ditch her friends to go have a drink with Klaus.

She'd rather poke her own eyeballs out with number two pencils than spend one single evening at the bar with Klaus.

But she doesn't poke out her own eyeballs—she's too pretty for that. And besides, Ms. Mystic Falls doesn't just _abandon _her friends. Reputation to uphold and all. But she's not going to go off with Klaus and play house and pretend all is good and right in the world, and she's certainly not going to pretend that she's cool with hanging out and having a drink or _whatever_ it is he's leading her to.

So she flashes away from him, pulls a screw loose from the concrete sidewalk and grabs her purse from where it had dropped when he'd popped up on her. She hides the nail in her palm, covered by her magenta purse, and forces her feet to bring her back to the wall where he stands, slouching lazily against it (and yeah, it's totally infuriating: this complete ease he can have at all times. Like please, she's heard of his epic temper tantrums that put even the grouchiest two year old to shame).

"Hm." She bats her lashes. He smiles and looks away as she sidles up beside him, and copies his position; crosses one ankle over the other and folds her arms over her chest. Uses her arm to conceal the bloodied fingers of her other hand where a rusty brown nail is clenched in her palm (but don't worry, her nails aren't chipped—can't walk back, wouldn't dare walk back into the party room with blood caked under her fingernails).

She sends Klaus a sideways glance, plasters on the sweetest smile she can muster (doesn't show teeth, but hopes it's convincing enough) and gently touches his arm. Feathers her fingers down his sleeve, and lets her hand fall away.

"I don't believe in collateral damage," she says. "I'm not going to just... _leave _my friends? Not like this."

Klaus tilts his head _that _way, one tawny eyebrow arching, and the dimples in his cheek deepen as he grins. Surreptitiously, because Klaus can't do anything without there being a secret meaning behind it. He just can't.

"The way they've left you?"

Caroline scoffs, whirling to face him. "They haven't _left _me, _Klaus_." She spits his name like soapy water in her mouth, a revulsion to rid herself of. He chuckles and it infuriates her even more (and more and more, constantly infuriating her in ways that she doesn't always understand). Makes her clench the rusty screw just a little bit tighter. It's okay though; the rusty dip digs into her flesh and in a totally weird and unhygienic way (the feeling of rust scraping against her skin kinda makes her want to get a tetanus shot) it grounds her.

"Is that so?" He glances around, arms spread wide, and makes a show of it. "I don't see your friends coming after you now, Caroline."

She almost throws her hands up, but she doesn't want to lose the screw—or give him heads up that she has it.

"I don't need to justify their actions—"

"Lack thereof—" he interrupts, and that damn know-it-all grin is back and it fuels a hate-fire in her chest. And what's even worse, what makes it all suck to the ninth degree is that she's not even sure that it's really _him _she hates so much right now. Well okay, yeah it is, he's completely ruined her life and she's pointing the finger of indirect blame at him thanks to his mother, but she's angry and like, she's just _angry_. And hurt. At everything. And that's what really sucks, right? Because sometimes her life just _sucks_ and he's had more than a contributing hand but also, it's not always all bad and sometimes, well like, 95% of the time she hates him, _but sometimes_ she thinks the attention and the compliments and the games just kinda give her something to live for but not like, not like _that_, okay? She just can't articulate it well and she thinks she gets a pass this one time because _look how her life has turned out_.

But she pushes on because seriously? Screw him. _Screw him. _

"—anyone's actions. _BUT _for your information, they _did _follow me out. I sent them back." She tuns her back on him, and rests her shoulder against the wall. The woolen material of her jacket catches on the brick, and she pulls away, then pushes her shoulder back against the wall. Pulls away, pushes back. Pulls away, pushes back. A wicked thought lights a bulb over her head, and she glances over her shoulder at him as casually as she can manage. "And they actually do what I ask of them. Because _they_ know when to get lost."

Klaus looks down at his shoes, but his smile reflects off of moist lips in the silvery blue moon.

"Unlike _you_."

Typical Klaus though, doesn't let her bite deter him. Just reaches out a hand and lightly touches her arm. "Perhaps a drink will help to dissolve that bitter taste at the back of your throat."

"Not likely," she starts, pushing the metal screw through the space between her fingers. Presses her thumb against the flat head and twirls, letting her curls fly in a moonlit halo around her shoulders. "You seem to exacerbate it... Pretty much whenever you're around." She bats her lashes again. "Which is too often, since I'm sure you weren't going to ask."

But Klaus is Klaus and Klaus doesn't care about semi-witty valley girl comebacks. No, he just smiles, tilts his head as if he's reading something _oh so _divine, and those stupid little dimples make her want to dig at them with the screw still hidden in her hand.

"You say the words..." he looks away from her, pretends to the study the sky, " ... and yet the smile on your face says something else entirely."

She wants to say something witty:

_Does it say this? _An image flashes before her eyes; one in which she has the pointed end of the screw slicing jagged lines into his flesh as she carves him out a la _Hannibal. _

Or maybe she could gouge out his eye with the nail, and rip out his throat with her teeth? (She vetoes that one right away, because hell if she has to get that close to him.)

Part of her wants to try it, but... Her blouse is just way too expensive and too new and too pretty to get blood all over it.

So instead, she flings the nail in Klaus' general direction and watches with grim fascination as it torpedoes in a never ending spiral just past his temple. It's the _oomph_ and the heavy thud that follows it that has her smiling with satisfaction, and she pivots sharply on her heel before blurring away.

"I'd hardly consider that appropriate behavior from Ms. Mystic Falls, Caroline," he calls out behind her, his arms full with a drunken, bloody mess of a younger brother, rusty screw sticking grotesquely out of his eye.

Has she become desensitized to these type of things? Because it doesn't even phase her anymore, and some part of her thinks it should. Doesn't stop her from sassing, "he said he likes sharp things," with an airy shrug of carelessness and self congratulation as she lets the door to the party room slam shut behind her.

She doesn't watch him from the window to see what he does.

She doesn't even think about it—_him_—either of them—for the rest of the night.

* * *

><p>AN: Been working on this for a _long _time (as I'm sure you figured out within the first paragraph), but could never catch the ending just right. Decided 6k words was enough and hit post. May do a part two now that Mr. Saltzman has returned from the dead.


End file.
